


To Live and Die in L.A.

by nocturnias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love, Romance, Songfic, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/pseuds/nocturnias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After The Fall, Sherlock and Molly run away to America while Mycroft deals with Moriarty's network. They discover that being on the side of the angels in the city of angels brings its own forms of pain and pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live and Die in L.A.

**Author's Note:**

> This ain’t no disco. I was in a weird state of mind when I wrote this. Blame medication and Wang Chung

_In the heat of the day_  
Every time you go away  
I have to piece my life together  
Every time you're away  
In the heat of the day

L.A. was both everything and nothing like it was made out to be in television and in movies. It was bright. Blindingly bright. The sun was a constant angry orb of orange-red fire that pulsed down on the inhabitants without mercy. It fascinated Molly, who up until now had spent her entire life in England and was not used to seeing so much sun. There were days that she’d spend hours just sitting on their balcony, huge flowered sunglasses on, staring out into the sky and the abyss that was the city.

It was fine with him. Sometimes he worked on a laptop, trying to piece together information that would help Mycroft.  His brother was the reason they were there. He’d flatly told Sherlock it was entirely too dangerous for him to remain in the UK while the hunt for Moriarty’s network took place and that he needed to be someone safe. He remembered the conversation clearly.

_“Where?” Sherlock asked, knowing that Mycroft had already set something up even as he asked._

_“America. Los Angeles, California, to be precise.”_

_“Why there?” Sherlock asked. He’d had no real objection: he had no real feelings about anything at that point, other than a numb relief tinged with sorrow._

_Mycroft laughed. “Who in the world would expect Sherlock Holmes to be in Los Angeles?”_

_Fair enough._

_“Doctor Hooper will accompany you,” Mycroft added._

_This was surprising. “Why? I don’t need a handler, Mycroft.”_

_“No. But you do need a friend,” Mycroft said softly._

_It was one of the most astonishing things his brother had ever said to him and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or thank him. “Did you ask her or “tell” her?” He asked. The last thing he wanted was for his brother to compel someone to be with him._

_“Asked, thank you. She agreed at once. I suspect you know why.”_

_He did. Molly loved him. Which was a shame, because he’d done absolutely nothing to deserve it. Still, her company would not be entirely unwelcome. The idea of being alone no longer appealed to him._

_“When?”_

_“In the morning.”_

Other times, Sherlock sat outside with Molly in the other white wicker chair, dark, plain sunglasses on, staring out; trying to understand what fascinated her so much.

Finally one day he asked her. “What are you looking for?”

She turned to look at him, and Sherlock knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to delete the look or her face, or her response.

“God.”

  _In the dark of the night_  
Every time I turn the light  
I feel that God is not in heaven  
In the dark of the night  
The dark of the night

Molly hadn’t hesitated when Mycroft had asked her to go with Sherlock. He’d laid it all out nicely: he’d make sure she got her job back at Bart’s when the time came, Toby would stay with someone who would take good care of him, her flat would be paid for and looked after and all her bills would be taken care of. He’d offered her an obscene sum of money, which she at first refused.

_“Why?” He asked her. “Most people would welcome such an offer.”_

_“I’m not most people,” she replied softly._

_“No,” he said after a pause. “I suppose you are not. Nevertheless, please take it. It may prove helpful to you later in life.”_

_He’d seemed so anxious Molly had agreed. She didn’t know why Mycroft thought everyone had to be bought and paid for. The only currency Molly cared about was her love for Sherlock and her desire to help him be okay and safe._

_“Does he know? He might not want me with him,” Molly said to Mycroft._

_He paused. Then: “I can assure you, Doctor Hooper, that whether or not he initially wants you with him, he very much needs you with him.”_

_Sherlock had looked at her with something that resembled relief when they got in the car the next morning. As the plane took off, he shocked her by taking her hand, albeit briefly, squeezing her fingers so tight she thought they would break. Then he let her go and stared out the window for nearly the entire flight._

_Well. It was something, she supposed._

The city fascinated her. She’d never been anywhere that even remotely resembled Los Angeles. It bothered her, too. Even though she was with Sherlock almost all the time, she felt alone at times. Like she’d left someone behind. And in a sense she had. The ghosts of Molly and Sherlock were still in London, staring, motionless, suspended in time and circumstance, waiting for them to come back.

Molly was a scientist. But she still had an unshakable faith in…something. No particular deity: she didn’t like pigeonholing her convictions and putting them in one box or another as though that was all there was to it. Still, she’d always felt a presence in her life. A steady, quiet hum somewhere in her mind that had made her not feel alone, that things would be all right eventually.

She’d lost that the moment they’d stepped off the plane in California. And she’d been looking for it ever since.

She knew Sherlock was stunned by her response. It wasn’t surprising, but it was amusing. He was so used to knowing everything, and now he was finding out that he didn’t really know her. Only the surface pieces he’d seen, like a funhouse mirror he’d glanced at but not walked up close to, to see the distortions.

He didn’t say another word that day. But he didn’t leave until she was ready to go inside.

_If I let myself go_  
And for where I just don't know  
I'd maybe hit some cold new river  
That led out to the sea  
An unknown sea

The fact that Molly Hooper was in love with him was no surprise to Sherlock Holmes.

It was not an elephant in the living room. It was a dragon in the burning wasteland of her heart. It had ravaged every corner until everything was ablaze with its fury, and it still wanted more. Molly had nothing left. No sword, no treasure: nothing that would make it unfurl its mighty wings and soar away at leave her at peace. She’d resigned herself to this long ago, but that didn’t make the sound and the fury of it any less painful.

She begins to daydream about leaving after a few months, and every time she feels a mixture of exaltation and shame. Mycroft was right: Sherlock **does** need her. But he doesn’t want her, or love her, and it is those distinctions, no matter how subtle they seem, that are tearing her apart more each day. She becomes afraid that if she stays, it will literally be the death of her, and not just figuratively the way it has been for the past 2 years.

The noble thing to do, of course, is stay regardless: to sacrifice herself for him. But she has been so noble for so long and the demons dreaming in her head won’t stop their insane chatter about how Sherlock will _never ever_ want her, and it’s almost too much to bear.

She keeps it all inside, just stares out into the city, walks beside him when being inside presses on both of them too much and they _have_ to go out, see the streets, the shops, the people.

She is still paralyzed with indecision, whether she will stay or go. She is a good person. Very good. But she is no saint. She thinks she’s doing a good job of it: of keeping from him that every day she is dying a little more inside. He’s not emotionally attuned: he can’t possibly figure it out.

She does not know how very wrong she is.

_I'd either swim or I'd drown_  
Or just keep falling down and down  
I think it's that, that makes me quiver  
Just to keep falling down  
Down, down, down  
  
Everything is black and white for Sherlock: he could be lost in the desert for all he cares, nothing will look the same until he is back in London, back to the work, and John, and Baker Street, with everything the way it was. Only then will the colors return and everything spill back out in all its glory for him. Until then, everything is dull.

Except Molly.

She doesn’t fully understand that he is no longer the man he once was. The one that plowed through the gardens of other people’s feelings, uncaring as long as he was entertained and distracted. He sees things now. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t stop it. So he is learning how to cope, how to harness it and add it to his deductive arsenal.

And he sees that Molly is hurting a little more each day.

He estimates that at current course, she will have had enough within another month. She is pale despite the blistering sun, a walking corpse amongst all the tanned people they encounter that burst with the life that he and Molly no longer have. Not for the first time, he feels the knife of guilt push in a little deeper: twist a little harder. It’s his fault she’s here: his fault she is suffering.

He knows that she would deny it: would say she’s fine. But she isn’t. And he isn’t. And that can’t be changed for different reasons. There is nothing that can be done for him yet: not until Mycroft tells him it is over. But there is something that can be done for Molly.

She saved his life. Now it is his turn to save hers.

He walks up to her, and without preamble pulls her to him and kisses her. It’s awkward and uncertain: he’s never kissed anyone before. She melts against him for a few seconds before she pulls away and looks at him, trying to figure out what he is doing.

He isn’t entirely sure himself. It was a confused impulse not really rooted in desire: more of an apology, a compensation. But as she looks at him, eyes wide, body shaking, he is struck by the realization of just how much she loves him, how badly she wants him. Yes, he doesn’t want to lose her; and yes, he doesn’t want to see her suffer anymore. But suddenly, inexplicably, there is more. She wasn’t grey before, but now, in this new awakening, she is more than that. She is the only thing that shines.

He kisses her again, and it seems natural this time.  All that he knows is that his lips on hers, her body pressed to his, feels very right to him. Like a breath he’d been holding without realizing it, and now he could fill his lungs with her and do more than just exist. She feels like _life._

Molly cries out softly and tangles her fingers in his hair, and the final wall comes crumbling around his feet. He surrenders to the feelings. They are all he has now, and he takes them in greedily, just as she does. He carries her to his bed and there is no awareness of anything but Molly: her lips and hands and heartbeat and whispers.

They spend the rest of the day there, bodies entwined, cuddling and laughing and tracing lazy possessive circles on each other’s skin. When the hot embers of the sun finally set they are finally sated, and they curl around each other to sleep.

Sherlock knows two things now.  One: Molly is happy. And curiously, so is he. She won’t leave him. Which is fortunate, as he has no desire to let her go. The other is that it is no longer his bed. It is their bed. They will share it like they have come to share everything else.

_I wonder why I live alone here_  
I wonder why we spend these nights together  
Is this the way I'll live my life forever  
I wonder why in LA  
To live and die in LA

_I wonder why we waste our lives here_  
When we could run away to paradise  
But I am held in some invisible vice  
And I can't get away  
To live and die in LA  
I can't get away  
To live and die in LA  
  



End file.
